


On the Steps of the Greenwood

by LadyNimrodel



Series: What Treasure Hobbits Desire [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, bilbo is shameless, though not too much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-26 11:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3849697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNimrodel/pseuds/LadyNimrodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last time, Bilbo only stole a look. This time he steals a little more. (And if Thorin lets him do his stealing, well, that is half the fun).</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Steps of the Greenwood

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Bilbo definitely has a thing for Thorin's hair. But he also has a thing for his eyes and his smile and his cock too. 
> 
> (Thank you everyone who commented or left kudos on part 1, your encouragement and love is what keeps me writing)

On the Doorstep of the Greenwood

 

On the doorstep of the Greenwood, in the bronze-yellow light of the dying sun, the company sets up camp. It is much earlier than they usually pause for the night but Gandalf maintains that it would be wiser to spend the night outside the forest and begin again in the morning. One glance at the wood in question and not even Thorin puts forth a protest. 

A deep gloom clings to the trees of the forest. It hugs the thick trunks and hangs like black moss from tree limbs. In there, night has already completely fallen. None of the dwarves remain unaffected by its unfriendly countenance; even Dwalin gives a shiver when he glances at it. 

“A cursed place indeed, if I’ve ever seen one,” mutters Gloin and there are low grumbles of agreement. A pall falls over the company as the sun retires and night sets in. With the moon ducking behind thin, watery clouds and the gloom of what was once Greenwood much too close, everyone is exceedingly quiet. Turning the ponies lose so they can return to Beorn is a weighty disappointment they all feel, if only because it seals their fate and their path into the forest. There is no turning away from this unfriendly place and they have no time left to go around. Their path is set in stone and knowing they must enter under those trees come morning has brought their moral low. 

Outside the wood, the land is choppy, full of rocky outcroppings and short, stunted trees that have been twisted by some unknown force. As strange as all this is, they are able to find a tall pair of rocks that jut from the landscape like they were dropped there by a giant and which lean drunkenly against each other. Between the rocks, the land dips, offering the company a relatively protected place to spend the night. If it has an added benefit of blocking their view of Mirkwood, well, no one makes any mention of it. 

The fire Oin builds close to one of the walls, hidden from any prying eyes by a sharp dip in the ground. But it is a small fire even so, lacking any cheer or warmth and Bilbo can see how many of their company have huddled closer together. Even Kili is subdued, leaning against his brother as they share their dinner with each other. The dark and golden heads bow together and he envies the comfort they take from one another. Dori and Ori too are huddled together, Nori pressed against their backs and the three whisper back and forth, faces drawn and eyes shifting restlessly. The rest have piled up near the fire, careful to keep their eyes on the light. Balin is chanting something softly in their guttural sounding Khuzdul that reminds him of thunder and rockfall. Once, he is sure he sees Dwalin discreetly run his fingers over his eyes, head turned away. Bilbo makes sure he is not watching when the burly dwarf turns back. 

There is only one of their company not taking advantage of the relative warmth of the fire and company. 

Thorin stands at the front of the makeshift shelter, looking out at the forest with his hands clasped tightly behind his back. His shoulders are stiff and his back is ramrod straight and Bilbo can almost see the tension rolling from him. No one wants to enter Mirkwood in the morning but it seems their fearless leader wants to enter there least of all. Bilbo can find no blame for that. He himself does not like look of those trees and the way they seem to watch. To wait. Tales of the darkness that awaits beyond those trees are far reaching and none of their company need Gandalf’s warning about the dangers that wait there. 

Not when the once named Greenwood is green no longer but filled with mirky shadows and fear.

In an effort to keep from drowning in the heavy atmosphere that has settled over the company, Bilbo does not look ahead to the morning that awaits them with uncertainty and shadows. Instead, he thinks of a different night, of watching a scene he should not have witnessed, of silver moonlight, of black hair spread upon white fur, of beauty where he never expected to find any. In fact, he cannot stop thinking about that night. The images are right there when he closes his eyes, ready to overtake him when his attention wanders, rolling over him when he glances in Thorin’s direction. 

Which he does now. 

Because how can he not?

He thought, when he awoke the morning after it happened, that this new sight of his would have faded. That Thorin’s beauty was reserved for moonlight and stolen looks. That it would disappear under his stern, Kingly cloak. That Bilbo would return to his damn senses. But his new-found acknowledgment would not fade. Each time he moved his gaze to the brooding dwarf King, he notices something else and finds it beautiful. How all that black hair makes his blue eyes look like chips of sky. How his hands, thick and square and particularly Dwarvish, are nimble and gentle as well has strong and deadly. How sometimes, when Kili and Fili are making a spectacle of themselves and he thinks no one is looking, his smile is sudden and bright. The silver in his hair, the deep, confident rumble of his voice, the strong, straight line of his nose. All of it lovelier than the stars in the sky. 

And Thorin’s invitation continues to hang between them, more weighty than any invitation should be. Bilbo thinks about that a lot too, recalling the scent of Thorin around him, the feel of his hair sliding against his skin, the husky heat in his voice. More than that, he thinks about accepting. But it seems that he may have used up all the Took bravery he had in him just signing Balin’s contract and dashing out his front door shouting to all and sundry about going on an adventure.

He wants to. 

Oh, how he wants. 

There were several days, during their stay in Beorn’s home, that he almost threw caution to the wind. On their second day, Bilbo found Thorin sitting in the garden among the irises and a patch of wildflowers, looking tired and a little lost. Seeing the dwarf there, surrounded by the delicate beauty of the flowers, made Bilbo’s heart race with possibility. The words Thorin whispered to him, ‘burglars take what they want’, kept ringing in his head as he watched until he could hear nothing else. But before he could step forward and do any kind of thievery, Dwalin ambled up to Thorin and drew him away with a few grumbled words of Khuzdul. The chance to take what was offered was stolen from Bilbo in a single breath. 

A fine burglar I am, he’d though wryly and with no small amount of disappointment.

He had one other chance, the night before they set out again. Their host was out, doubtlessly patrolling his boarders, and the others, well rested now to the point of restlessness, had taken to the fields inside the wall that surrounds Beorn’s homestead. From the clash of metal and shouts, they were sparring and tumbling about in the grass. The sound of merriment made Bilbo’s heart glad. But he was not in the field with them. Instead he found Thorin sitting off in another part of the grounds, back to a wide beech tree, eyes locked on the sky and a frown furrowing his brow. He wore no armor and his hair has been cleaned and brushed. The braids at his temples fall heavily against his chest. 

Desire had banked so bright in Bilbo, he nearly took it all right then. Everything in him screamed for it. 

Instead he sat beside the Dwarf and was silent, eyes on the clouds and listening to each other breathe. The sounds of the company were very far away. 

“I wonder about you at times, Mister Burglar,” Thorin broken the silence after a long time, his voice low. Bilbo tipped his head to look at him, enjoying the way the sun lay dappled on the black and silver mane as it tumbled through the thick leaves of the tree. Thorin was not looking at him but at the tops of his own boots. 

“About what?” he had finally asked, curious. Still without looking at him, Thorin reached over and captured Bilbo’s hand, thick fingers tangling with his own smaller ones. The heat in the places where their skin touched burned through him and he squeezed back, wondering of maybe he had burgled something after all. But he just did not know what yet. 

“For the sake of appearances, you are used to a soft life. No want for food or comfort, tucked away in your little hole and content to stay that way. Yet you followed us on this quest which may very well end in all our deaths, leaving all that comfort behind. I thought you a grocer and maybe you are that. But you are a burglar too, despite your protests,” the sharp blue gaze bent on him then, though Bilbo had already been sufficiently breathless when he met Thorin’s eye, “And that is only the surface of what you are, is it not?” In that moment, he was sure he could be seen straight through, all the pieces of him laid bare for scrutiny. Yet if Thorin saw everything that Bilbo feared he did, his face held no disgust nor did it turn cold and closed off. There is only fondness and warmth. 

Bilbo knew then he did not need steal the thing which he wanted; he only needed to ask. But instead he ducked his head, blush burning the tips of his ears and ridges of his cheeks. 

“I’m just a hobbit. Just Bilbo Baggins,” he said lamely. Of all the responses, he did not expect Thorin to laugh, the sound of it a low and rumbling, like hundreds of distant, churning hooves. 

“Aye, you are at that, though there is no ‘just’ about it,” Thorin said softly and they lapsed into silence, Bilbo’s shocked and Thorin’s thoughtful. Bilbo still ponders the answer Thorin gave him. But no matter how he turns the words over and over in his mind, he gets no closer to guessing at the sentiment behind them. It would be a great irony if Thorin thinks Bilbo is more than meets the eye because is that not what he himself has determined about Thorin? So many different, interesting facets, all in one tall, brooding dwarf. Perhaps Thorin sees in him the same thing. Despite his best intentions, Bilbo knows if he is not careful, his hopes are going to be horribly dashed. 

Yet he hopes still.

Hopes that Thorin has seen him not just as a worthy member of the company but as a friend. Or something very like a friend. 

It takes Bilbo a moment or two of watching Thorin standing tall against the darkness outside when he feels it. The restlessness that sent him out the door on this adventure in the first place, that sent him down a darkened corridor to a room filled with moonlight and beauty. It wells like a storm in his breast, filling his limbs and sharpening his breath. With great care to remain casual, he puts his empty bowl on the ground, pats Bofur fondly on the shoulder and stands. A few curious eyes flicker to him and Bofur gives him a fleeting smile back. But everyone is too uneasy and when he does nothing more than go stand at Thorin’s side, the eyes slide away and they go back to their chanting songs and whispered conversations. His movement causes barely a ripple of reaction and he is grateful. 

Because he is intent on stealing something tonight. 

Thorin’s eyes look like deep pools of still shadows when he turns at Bilbo’s gentle touch. There is no surprise on his face nor curiosity. Just a stillness only broken by one raised eyebrow. 

“The forest is not happy with our presence here,” he says softly, looking back out into the darkness. Bilbo hums in agreement, hands pressed in the pockets of his waistcoat to hide his nervousness. 

“It’s watching us,” Bilbo murmurs, unease prickling along his spine, “Everyone is rather disturbed by the way it…looms,” Thorin snorts but he does not disagree. The night has settled so heavily upon the forest that he can make out nothing of it, not even the shape of the leaves against the sky. Finally the dwarf beside him sighs, dark hair sliding forward to hide his face. 

“And yet that is our road, though I wish it were not so. We have not the time to go around.” Bilbo rolls his shoulders and glances back at the rest of the company, huddled together as they are. 

“We may not have the time it takes to go through, either,” his words are quiet but he has no doubt that Thorin hears his concern. A heavy hand grips his shoulder and the heat of it burns through his clothes. Inappropriately, he recalls a stolen moment in a garden with the heat of this very same hand curled gently around his own palm. And just like that, the restlessness is back, tripping through his blood like a swift stream flowing over jagged rocks. It takes over him and before he even quite knows what he is doing, he has captured Thorin’s hand in his own and is looking up at the Dwarf through his eyelashes. He cannot interpret the look that is returned but he is not discouraged. 

A dark eyebrow lifts in an unspoken question and he feels his mouth go dry. But he is a Took as much as he is a Baggins and his mind has been made up. 

“I would speak with you for a moment, Master Oakenshield, if you would allow it,” his voice sounds small even to his own ears and he thinks maybe his hands are shaking as they hold onto bigger, stronger fingers. But he meets Thorin’s gaze squarely and is rewarded with a tip of the dark head in acceptance. Both spare a backwards glance to the rest of the company but no one gives them even a glance and Bilbo tugs on the hand curled comfortably in his as he steps out into the night. 

Immediately away from the fire, its light holds no sway over the darkness outside the shelter of rock and he must pick his way carefully over broken shale and tricky tufts of grass knolls. Yet his eyes adjust quickly enough and the moon, though still thin and distant, breaks out from beneath the firm grip of a cloud. It gilds a land of sharp dips and stunted trees and sharp, jutting boulders in weak silver light. But when he looks to the left, the forest is untouched by it, squatting in darkness. He is quick to turn away and refuses to be affected by its unforgiving presence. That worry is reserved for tomorrow. Tonight is about the hand clasped fast in his own, the fall of heavy boots behind him, the rustle of a long coat and the tiny little clink of hair beads against a dwarven hauberk. 

Tonight, Thorin’s presence towers higher than any malevolent forest.

Unsafe as it is to wander too far from the fire and the protection of the company, Bilbo makes sure they are not close enough to be accidentally stumbled upon or overheard. It is one thing for Thorin to discover him spying upon a private moment of pleasure and quite another to have it spread through the entire company that Bilbo Baggins is not as respectable a Hobbit as he likes to pretend. And with Thorin, no less! 

For some reason, in his mind, the fact that the dwarf has said not a single word of protest and has followed Bilbo meekly does not ease his doubts. This…thing that is between them has no name and no definite boundaries. And it is so new and strange, he is not even sure it is a thing. He just clings to Thorin’s and ignores the nervous fluttering of his heart. 

When the shadows lay heavily once more on the land, the moon covered by curl of cloud, Bilbo pauses next to a thick, stunted tree. Its branches are twisting and its roots crawl upon the ground like great, grasping fingers. Under the cover of the leaves, the shadows are even heavier but he can still see Thorin’s outline when he turns, their hands twisting up in between their bodies. The air is still, nary a breeze to stir up a sound or waft of air. It makes him feel hot under his arms and at the hollow of his back but he will not look away. He will not be the one to let go first. In the darkness, he is sure Thorin gives one of his quicksilver smiles, there and gone like a blink. 

“Now that you have me here, Master Hobbit, what shall you do with me?” He is towering again, huge and broad, even though he stands less than a head taller. Nervousness would clog Bilbo’s throat if he let it but though he quakes at his own boldness, he would quake worse if he backs away. Untangling his hand allows him to step closer, toes against the metal on Thorin’s boots. Breath washes across his brow and tousles his curly fringe. How he wants that breath to fill his mouth, how he wants to take it into his lungs and roll its taste over his tongue. 

But his hands have found Thorin’s hair and all other desires slip away.

Dwarf hair, he finds, is not soft. Not like his own. It is rough and thicker than a pony’s and a little damp with the toils and dirt that comes from extensive travel. Thorin’s is wavy, the ends curling gently around Bilbo’s thumbs and wrists. Hiding in the dark depths he encounters several metal beads and clasps that warm quickly to his touch. Afraid to dislodge any, he is careful not to pull on them but he finds he cannot bring himself to leave them alone for very long. Finally, he takes great handfuls and leans up to press his face into it. 

Breathes it in. 

Earth. Metal. Sweat. A trace of honey from the soaps they used to bathe with at Beorn’s. And something deeper, something without an identity, without a name. 

So lost on the smell and the sensation of those long, sensuous curls against his smooth cheeks, he has misses when Thorin slips one strong arm around Bilbo’s waist, palm a hot brand between his shoulder blades. It holds him steady when he would waver and trip into the Dwarf’s bulk. When he pulls back he is both sheepish and burning like he has been set aflame. 

“How bold my Burglar is tonight,” Thorin murmurs, voice like a physical weight. The sound makes Bilbo shiver and his breath catches. 

“Because I have something I wish to steal,” he answers and he does indeed feel bold. Bold and unstoppable and young. Goodness, he feels so young. When was the last time he spent time thus with another? Before he came of age, surely. Many years gone. Thorin chuckles softly, his hand still steady at Bilbo’s back. The sound rumbles between them, deep and humid like water on stone. 

“What might that be?” The tease in the dwarf’s voice makes him smile, even as he lifts himself on his toes so instead of washing over his forehead, Thorin’s words heat his nose and cheeks. Bilbo answers the question with a low hum. His own hands are still buried in the magnificent fall of curls and the smell of Thorin is strong in his nose. With a sigh, he rubs his face into the short, thick beard, rough against his lips and the solid jaw hard underneath. When he hums again and tugs on the hair in his fists, the hand holding him clenches tight in the back of his coat. 

“Whatever you would have me steal,” he finally sighs, settling back onto his heels. On his lips is a sly smile, one which widens when Thorin growls and clutches at him with both hands now, “After all, wasn’t it you who hired me as a Burglar?” Bilbo squeaks when rough hands and arms as strong as steel bars jerk him forward so his front is pressed against Thorin, who seems as immovable as a mountain. Heat burns through Bilbo and he clutches now at the two neat braids that hang to Thorin’s chest. 

“You maddening creature,” Thorin snarls and Bilbo has no time to voice his retort. The kiss is consuming in a way he never knew a kiss could be. Immediately his mouth is opened and taken, more than just Thorin’s breath sliding in between his teeth and swirling atop his tongue. The taste makes his toes curl and his breath rush out of his lungs like it has been punched out of him. Scrabbling at Thorin’s braids, the fur of his coat, anything he can get his hands on, Bilbo does not realize they are moving backwards until his back is slammed against the unforgiving bark of the tree and he has dwarf pressed all along his front. 

“Thorin!” he gasps, not a protest but a plea, swallowed by Thorin’s mouth as soon as he can say it. It earns him a low rumble, an earthquake of sound pressed against his chest and he licks at Thorin’s teeth. 

They clutch at one another for longer than he knows, long enough for his face to redden with the rub of a coarse black beard and his lips to tingle with every suck and nip. Heat does not build between them but explodes, like a spark set to dry tinder. They do not kiss but devour, with teeth and tongue and breath. Big hands grip his waist, holding him so his feet barely touch the rough ground. If they keep on this way, there are going to be great tears in his waistcoat. But then Thorin rolls his tongue against Bilbo’s sensitive palate and when everything in him flares with desire, the state of his clothing is forgotten. 

All thought blows away like shredded parchment in a strong wind. Everything becomes need and fire and Thorin. 

They breathe when they must, and only then, loath to lose the slick taste of each other’s mouths. Air comes when Bilbo tips his head back, curls snagging on the rough tree bark at his back, stolen again when Thorin sucks hungrily at his neck and his ears. It comes again when Thorin pulls away, mouth shining in the wane moonlight, his harsh breaths like a bellows in the short space between them. But inevitably they must return to the kiss, touch their tongues to places perviously undiscovered, sink teeth into chins and lips, suck away the mingled taste of each other. Here in the space between their bodies, the quest lies forgotten and the darkness is nothing more than the shadows in the hollows of Thorin’s eyes and depth of his hair. 

Then Bilbo is lifted off clear off his feet with a jerk and he can do nothing but wrap his legs around Thorin’s hips. 

And oh!

Oh. 

There is a big, angular belt buckle digging into his belly and cold metal against his chest. Thick wool is stiff against his calves and many layers separate skin from skin. But the hands at his back grip him hard and where their hips meet, he can feel the push of hardness he knows is not the pommel of a knife. He knows what that hardness looks like too, thick a way that makes his stomach clench and toes curl just to think about. Without thought, he rolls his hips forward, wanting all of it, wanting everything. His mouth is open and the sound Thorin makes when their cocks connect through their clothing is eagerly swallowed. 

Everything becomes desperate movement and wet breaths and grasping, clutching hands. Thorin presses the heat of his length again and again into the space of Bilbo’s open thighs, sucking at an offered neck, kiss-bruised lips, soft, un-furred jaw. When he adjusts his grip, one hand sliding down to grip one round buttock, Bilbo jerks and gasps and yanks at Thorin’s braids. 

“So shameless,” the rumble of Thorin’s voice is nearly as maddening as the feel of his fingers oh so close to unbearably intimate places and Bilbo whimpers helplessly into the fall of dark hair, “Such a wanton thing, you are. I would not have thought, the way you value manners and propriety,” a strong thrust of Thorin’s hips times itself with the rumbling end of his observations and Bilbo lurches forward to bite at the words. 

“It’s, ah, it’s your fault,” he practically slurs then moans embarrassingly when Thorin sucks on his bottom lip. 

“How is that, little Burglar?” a thrust, fingers rubbing at places right through Bilbo’s poor, tight trousers and the world shakes around him, loses its solidity under the onslaught of bright pleasure burning up his spine. It takes him a few moments to gather enough wits to retort. 

“You, all spread out on those infernal skins with your…”here he pauses to gasp, eyes fluttering closed. The way Thorin felt, hard and relentless, cock straining his own trousers, “Your damned lovely cock and…and your hair,” he gives said hair a rough tug and breathes in the resulting rumbling hum. 

“You think my cock is lovely?” Thorin chuckles and Bilbo cannot even gather himself enough to glower at the tease. He presses his forehead against a broad shoulder, fur tickling his sweaty cheek and tries to keep up with the motions of Thorin’s hips. Each roll is separate from the last, dragging their groins together in oddly graceful movements. And that is a brain shattering thought right there. Apparently the grace Thorin wields on the battlefield translates beautifully to sex. Bilbo wonders, through the fever numbing his mind, if Thorin would fuck like that too; slow, deliberate and graceful.

“Please stop talking,” he whimpers into the fur of Thorin’s coat, “I can’t…it’s too…” it is too much. He is going to finish and he is going to do it into his trousers and he just does not care because nothing has ever been this intense. The hand gripping and twisting in the back of his waistcoat is suddenly grasping his curls, tilting his head back so Thorin can lick his way back into his mouth. There are sounds, high, desperate sounds, being ripped from the back of his throat because the friction is dragging him ever higher and he does his best to keep up with the kiss. But he wants to just suck on Thorin’s tongue and he cannot stop thinking about what it would feel like if they had no clothes and…

And…

Bilbo rips away from the kiss and scrabbles at Thorin’s shoulders as he reaches his end. If he cries out, it is inaudible to his ears through the thunder of his pulse and the heady rush of pleasure. He is aware of rubbing his hips shamelessly in his release, of his his back arching and toes curling. He is aware of Thorin’s mouth on his bared throat and a string of low, growling curses takes him even higher. 

When he is finally wrung out, pleasure easing from sharp and immediate into something more bearable, he clings uselessly to broad shoulders. Perhaps he even whimpers a bit, though he cannot say for sure. All he really knows is coming down has never felt so good. 

Long before he is ready, large hands jostle him and he moans piteously. In his ear, Thorin’s chuckle is strained. Between his legs, he is hot and still as hard as steel. With great effort, Bilbo opens his eyes and finds all the force of Thorin’s gaze trained on his face. He cannot make out the color of his eyes but sweat beads on his forehead and his lips are parted as he heaves for breath. Tension runs through Thorin’s body like lightening, his hands gripping almost too hard and his muscles practically vibrating with the effort of holding still. Bilbo wishes for more light so he could see if need tightens the corners of Thorin’s eyes and the way his lips must certainly glisten. Even so, his bulk and heat pressed against the hobbit is impressive enough and the tang of sweat and desire is thick in his nose. Sated and buzzing with lassitude that comes after a particularly wonderful orgasm, he leans back and smiles through the sweat ends of his curls. 

“I think your cock is fantastic and I also think you look wonderful when you come,” he murmurs, voice thick and teasing and before Thorin can so much as blink, Bilbo untangles one hand from his braids and slips it between them. Even through several layers of clothing, he can feel how wonderfully thick Thorin is and how hot. Better still is the sound that is ripped from Thorin’s lips as soon as fingers grasp at him.

“You damn little…” Thorin growls and cuts off whatever else he would say, clutching Bilbo until he is afraid he will break under the pressure. But he cannot bring himself to mind, not if Thorin is going to snap his hips like that and breathe into Bilbo’s greedy mouth broken, rumbling sounds that are felt more than heard. All the while, he moves into the pressure of a small, clever hand against his cock.

It does not take all that long before Thorin’s breath hitches with every inhale and his knees begin to buckle. When he stills, entire body going as rigid as stone, he hides his face in Bilbo’s curls and shakes. A softer, slower kind of arousal curls through Bilbo when wet heat bleeds through the cloth under his hand. 

Through it all, Thorin is beautifully silent. 

They sag together against the tree for a long while, pulling their breathing back under control, easing tense muscles, just feeling each other. With the urgency gone, Bilbo is very aware of Thorin’s bulk, the earthy, metal smell of him and the way he must cling so in order to keep himself from falling to the ground on his rump. His left leg has cramped and his thighs ache a little from being spread so long. But he does not let go. He lets Thorin sigh softly into his hair and waits for the dwarf to stir. Finally, when soreness and lassitude wins over, he is gently unraveled and placed back on his feet. Thorin kisses him this time with no urgency. Even so, the lazy way the corners of his mouth are invaded makes his heart skip and bubble in his chest. 

“My hair?” Thorin laughs when he pulls away, hands rubbing against the tips of Bilbo’s ears which makes his toes curl against the ground, “Truly?” Bilbo rolls his eyes. 

“Truly your hair, though I shall not praise you any more lest your head grow another three sizes,” he glares up at the dwarf and receives a rumbling chuckle in response. 

“You are indeed full of surprises. Proper little Hobbit that you are, getting all turned about by my hair and my—” Bilbo claps his hands over Thorin’s mouth to stop him before he goes too far, hissing at him to stop that nonsense right now. All he gets for his trouble is a kiss into his palm and a wicked grin he can see crinkling the shadows around Thorin’s eyes. 

“Had I known you were going to be a complete ass about it, I would never have done…” the rest of his rant is stolen by demanding lips and a tongue against his teeth. It goes on and on, until he fears he will suffocate but he supposes if he will perish, he would rather do so trapped in Thorin’s embrace than at the edge of an orc blade. When they part it is with reluctance and he is more than a little dizzy. Bilbo licks his lips, chasing the taste Thorin left there and runs his fingers absently over dark braids, “Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be doing the stealing around here?” he grumbles and shivers a little when Thorin lets him go. He hates the way the night imposes between them, an unwelcome third party but it is no doubt long past time they be headed back to the rest of the Company. 

“There’s been enough burglarizing done for one night,” Thorin quips lightly, though he reaches out and brushes his fingers over Bilbo’s lips like he wishes he never stopped kissing them. He smiles against the touch. 

“For tonight, maybe,” he allows and in the dim light of the moon that filters through the leaves above their heads, Thorin throws him an appropriately heated look. Oh yes, maybe for tonight but they know not what the days ahead will bring. And Bilbo’s burglar days are only just beginning, he thinks. Who said the only thing he is allowed to steal is a precious stone from under a dragon’s nose? If he is a Burglar like Gandalf insists, then a true thief he shall be. 

Only, this treasure is not measured by gold or material possessions. It is measured in eyes the color of bluebells and an inky fall of hair and a voice made of thunder. It is measured in the number of small, hard-won smiles, in the heady smell of earth and metal, in stormy glowers and unmoving stubbornness. That, he thinks, is better a prize than all the gold in Middle Earth. 

They clean themselves with the sad scrap of cloth Bilbo has long given up as an adequate handkerchief but could never remember to throw away. Words are scarce between them and the heaviness of the forest has once again filled the air, watchful and sinister. But it has lost its bite, Bilbo muses as he follows Thorin back to the safety of the shelter and their companions. The forest does not frighten him like it did before he did his stealing. And not once during their time together did he feel unsafe, even though before the thought of leaving the shelter and the light of the fire made chills ripple along his arms and up his back. In front of him, the broad back is straight and moonlight picks out the silver lining Thorin’s dark hair and he knows, on this night, the darkness has no teeth. 

The company are on their feet when Bilbo and Thorin draw close to the shelter, varying lines of worry scoring their faces. Only Dwalin remains unmoved, standing at the entrance like he is blocking it, massive arms folded over his chest and an even bigger scowl on his face. Fili is standing in front of him, voice raised and determination etched on his face, blond hair catching the red light of the fire. Behind him Kili is glowering and the others watch, shifting restlessly. He notices with some irony that Gandalf is conveniently missing from the group. 

“…something happened to them, Dwalin! You can’t just keep us here while they could be in danger!” he goes to shove past Dwalin only to have his shoulder caught. 

“If they were in danger, laddie, we would have been called.” Dwalin growls. Fili opens his mouth to protest but Thorin steps into view with Bilbo only a step behind and everyone turns to regard them with wide, relived eyes. 

“Uncle!” Kili exclaims, young face opening with a smile, “Where did you disappear to?”

“Aye, everyone was ready to tear apart the countryside looking for the two of you,” Balin mutters from the back of the group and his expression is a little too knowing for Bilbo’s liking. He feels Thorin shift beside him, though he is not sure whether it is from discomfort or something else. Thinking quickly, he clears his throat and steps forward, collecting the attention of the entire company. 

“I believe that is my fault. I was feeling a little poorly and Thorin was only making sure I was alright,” he says it with as bland a smile as he can manage. Everyone breathes, tension draining from them like water from a broken dam. Oin peers at him closely and Bofur claps him heartily on the back as everyone returns to their prior places with grumbles and dragging feet. 

“How are you feeling now, laddie?” Bofur asks, dark eyes bright with concern and Bilbo lets himself be dragged towards the fire with no protest. If Thorin and Dwalin follow him with their eyes, he ignores them with ease. The others make him sit, Oin does his best to brew him some tea from leaves generously provided by Beorn and he enjoys the pampering with only a small sliver of guilt. 

“I’m fine, really,” he says as reassuringly as possible, even as Kili drapes himself over Bilbo’s shoulders and Bofur and Fili press against his sides like bookends, “Just a small bout of indigestion is all. It’s passed.” But he drinks the tea and enjoys the warmth his friends provide and very carefully does not look at Thorin for the rest of the night. Especially not when he spots Gandalf lingering in the shadows, a curling smile of amusement ill-hidden by his beard. He just throws the wizard a glower and makes up his bedroll. Damned nosy, meddling wizard. Not only does Dwalin clearly know what is going on and Balin probably suspects, but obviously Gandalf has an inkling as well. The very idea makes Bilbo blush all the way up to his ear tips and he quickly wraps himself into his blankets. Yet his good mood will not be ruined. 

When he shuts his eyes, it is with a smile. 

Whatever tomorrow may bring, he knows he can face it with some small courage. Courage and the memory of Thorin’s kiss upon his lips. 

-end-


End file.
